I have my burnt father in what is essentially a large jar on my dresser - next to the dried lavender sticks and the incense. He’s waiting for me, I know it.
I feel pulled to him more often than I wish. Closet, gun. Closet, gun. Closet, gun.
I drink with photographs of my dead surrounding my bed.
I have some tiny part of what he was in blown glass I wear a…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Strange Feelings to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.